Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Aurelia
W hen we reach the grand hall, it looks as if most of the court has already gathered around the edges of the expansive room, waiting for the latest spectacle. The crowd of nobles parts at my arrival, opening a path for Rochelle and me to venture deeper into the space.
Chandeliers beam overhead, lighting up both us and the enchanted paintings across the ceiling that swirl and shift before the eyes. I can’t take the time to admire them.
Up ahead, a low platform, no more than half a foot high, has been constructed on the wooden floor. Its circular surface stretches perhaps twenty feet across, dappled with small tiles cut in irregular shapes of pale purple and yellow. Like an erratic mosaic that forms more the impression of a picture than anything identifiable .
Fausta and Giralda are already standing by the platform, their maids hovering nearby. The emperor and his heir sit on gilded chairs off to our right, placed on another platform that’s nearly as tall as my shoulders.
Why do they feel they need such a lofty view of our performance here? What is any of this about?
As I approach, Fausta’s gaze settles on me. A sharp little smile crosses her lips, so triumphant that any uncertainty I had about who vandalized my room vanishes.
I don’t have much opportunity to gather my jangled nerves. Steady taps ring out as Leonette strides to join us, her dark face set in its usual serious expression. She nods to all of us as if to say, Well, here we are.
Emperor Tarquin claps his hands, and the murmurs that were passing through the crowd halt.
Marclinus grins down at us so eagerly the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Maids, please assist your ladies by collecting their shoes and holding on to them for safe keeping.”
Our shoes? I blink at him for a second and then bend over to peel the thin leather slippers off my feet. Nothing good ever comes from questioning His Imperial Highness.
Rochelle takes my shoes from me with a furtive squeeze of my hands. Clutching the slippers to her chest, she steps back a few paces to the inner edge of the crowd.
My competitors have similarly bared their feet. I’d feel glad that’s the only part of us Marclinus is demanding go naked, except I’m sure there’s much more to his challenge than this request.
His grin hasn’t budged. “I need a wife who can keep up with me through any revelry, no matter the circumstances. Who can celebrate our union and our empire during times both joyful and dire. So let us see you dance for as long as your body will keep moving!”
He gives another extravagant swing of his arm. “Up onto your dance floor you go. Frolic until one of you proves too weak for the task. All you have to do is stay up there and cavort your hearts out.”
His laugh peals off the high ceiling. Restraining a shudder, I step onto the low platform.
As soon as my bare feet touch the tiles, alarm jitters beneath my skin. The surface isn’t as smooth as I was expecting. Some of the irregular edges prick at my soles.
There has to be a reason he set up this special setting for our dance rather than holding the trial in the ballroom.
Emperor Tarquin turns in his seat. “Prince Lorenzo? There you are. My heir and his potential brides deserve the liveliest melodies you can conjure. We have your instrument right here.”
He motions to the base of his tall platform, where one of the pages is waiting with a lyre.
Lorenzo pushes through the crowd into view, his stance tense. He accepts the lyre, glances down at it, and then looks toward me.
His mouth twists. His dark eyes burn into me with as much anguish as I saw in them when he walked in on me with Bastien and Raul, but it’s not all because of me now.
A crease forms in his brow. Then his jaw clenches as if he’s gathering his resolve. His gaze flicks from the emperor above and back to me, his lips parting, and all at once I know down to my core that he’s about to refuse. To rebel against the man who keeps him leashed.
For me. Because no matter what he thinks of me tonight, he doesn’t want to play a part in tormenting me.
Panic jolts through my nerves. My hand twitches at my side, a hasty gesture I hope he’ll see without anyone else realizing it’s more than anxious fidgeting. Play.
Lorenzo hesitates, the furrow in his forehead deepening. Tarquin glances down at him, probably wondering what’s delaying his pet prince, and I twist my fingers in another swift gesture. I’m all right.
I don’t know if it’ll make this night better or worse to be dancing to the music of the man I trust most in this place, who might not trust me at all now, but I’ll be damned if I let him get any more hurt because of me.
“Well?” the emperor says in an ominous tone, but Lorenzo is already bracing the instrument against his abdomen. He sets his fingers against the strings and draws out the first strains of a song.
I can’t help thinking I pick up a faintly sad strain beneath the spirited tune that spills out into the air. My throat constricts.
There’s nothing I can do but lift my arms and move my feet to follow the melody.
It only takes a few steps to confirm my fears. Giralda gasps, and Fausta’s face tightens into a pale, fierce mask. Even Leonette can’t suppress a quiver of her chin.
The uneven edges of the tiles scrape against the unprotected soles of our feet. They don’t slice straight in—I suppose because then this trial would be over far faster than suits Marclinus’s need for entertainment—but they pinch and nip and jab, sending slivers of pain up my legs with every movement.
Quivering through the bone in my shin that isn’t quite finished mending. Waking up the dull ache that’d almost died down again after Fausta’s latest attack.
I gird myself against the building pain, focusing my attention on the music instead. On the other sensations flowing through and over my body with the sway of my limbs. On the center of calm inside me—shrunken but still there.
Giralda shows the first evidence of actual injury. A whimper slips from her mouth, and a thin smear of blood marks the tiles with the next movement of her feet.
Marclinus, the sadistic prick, lets out an approving chuckle. Emperor Tarquin simply smiles.
The vibrant red stands out starkly against the pale flooring. No doubt that’s why they picked the color scheme.
They want everyone to see how much we’re enduring to appease them.
Giralda’s face pales with each step in time with the rhythm. Every glimpse I get of her tugs at my heart more.
She hasn’t stood up for me against Bianca and Fausta, but I can’t blame her for that. She’s never actually hurt me.
I sashay closer to her until I’m close enough to speak without Fausta overhearing. I have no intention of giving my most vicious rival the benefit of my advice.
“Always lift your feet a little off the floor,” I murmur, following my instructions as I give them. “Don’t slide them over the tiles at all. The rough edges will dig in less that way.”
She gives the slightest nod, her eyes wide.
The strategy isn’t enough to avoid injury completely. Step after rhythmic step, the thin ridges dig in more. My heel stings, and I bite my lip.
I’m not surprised to see smudges of red trailing after my feet as I dip and whirl.
With a stifled hiss here and a flinch there, more and more blood dapples the tiles. Fausta’s eyes have gone vacant, as if she’s retreated into her head as much as I’m trying to.
Little cuts throb all over my bare soles. I dig my fingers into my palms as if I can offset the pain below with a distraction above.
“Look at the art they’re making!” Marclinus calls out, sounding so jovial I’d like to shove my bleeding foot right down his throat. “But I think it’s gotten a little boring. Let’s speed up this dance, shall we?”
He shoots a pointed look at Lorenzo. The prince’s arms tighten around the lyre, but he speeds up the tempo with a flick of his hand.
The quickening patter of my feet sends even more twinges racing up my legs. Giralda muffles a ragged groan, leaving behind whole blotches of crimson beneath her halting steps. Leonette has dug her fingers into the skirt of her dress, swishing it to add to her dance while gripping it as if clinging on for dear life.
Fausta’s breath hitches through her teeth, but she prances on, smattering blood in her wake.
My gaze flits beyond the platform and collides with two pairs of staring eyes: one pale blue and blazing with fury, the other pine-green and horrified.
Raul and Bastien have advanced to the front of our audience. They track my movements across the platform, the muscles in Raul’s shoulders taut, Bastien’s mouth pressing ever flatter.
Are they still upset at me after everything that happened between us and Lorenzo today or is all their ire aimed at the men who set me on this bloody path? I suppose it doesn’t really matter.
If they challenge the emperor, if they even reveal that they care what happens to me, my fate and theirs could become ten times worse.
Beyond them, the crowd shifts. I spot servants in the imperial livery weaving between the nobles along the inner circle, handing each of them something from a box.
Oh, gods, what new chaos is Marclinus about to unleash on us?
At another jab, another shock of agony lances from the ball of my foot to my thigh. My knee wobbles, but I throw myself into a spin that tips my balance onto my other leg. Blood trails across the tiles in a smeared spiral.
The imperial heir gives a whoop of approval. “Such dedication! My ladies have proven they’re up to an even greater challenge. Let’s bring out their dancing partner.”
At his beckoning motion, a page darts onto the platform between us and flips over a larger central tile about the width of his hand. A steel loop juts from its surface.
I peer at the metal ring in a haze of pain, confusion, and growing exhaustion. What in the realms is that?—
A snarl cuts through the hush of the crowd. My veins turn to ice.
The nobles jostle away from another figure cutting through their swarm. This servant holds a long chain, the other end of which is attached to a collar on the neck of a huge, spotted panther.
A leather muzzle criss-crosses the beast’s face, preventing it from doing more with its mouth than snarl and growl. Its keeper yanks on the chain to direct it up onto the platform with us and fixes the chain to the loop in the floor.
Then he detaches the muzzle with a jerk of his hand and dashes away with the leather straps in his grip.
All four of us have slowed despite the spirited tune lilting through the room. Giralda presses her hand to her mouth to muffle a faint shriek. Even Fausta is gaping at the immense wild cat, her skin turned outright sallow .
Emperor Tarquin gives his order with a note of warning. “Dance.”
Lorenzo’s playing has wavered. He looks as if he grits his teeth before digging back into the song.
I shuffle to one side and the other, rippling my skirt to make the movement look more artful. My attention stays glued to the most literal predator in our midst.
The panther prowls around the platform, its muscles flexing throughout its intimidating but graceful body. I edge away from it as well as I can while following the melody. The beast makes a harsh rumbling sound low in its throat, its amber gaze sweeping across all of us in turn.
The chain is just long enough to let it roam the platform freely but not venture beyond. Although I’d imagine Emperor Tarquin asked for his high vantage point to ensure his and his son’s safety should the creature manage to break free.
The largest wild cats we have in Accasy are sturdy lynxes that stand no taller than my waist and flee at the sight of humans. I don’t know what might provoke this animal or how to ward off an attack.
There usually seems to be strength in numbers. The more imposing we seem, the less likely it’ll judge us to be easy prey.
I mince over to Leonette and urge Giralda to join us. “Dance close to each other. If it sees us together, we’ll look harder to pick off.”
Leonette’s stern expression doesn’t shift, but she takes a couple of steps toward me. Sweat has beaded along the roots of her chestnut hair, but her curvy yet athletic form emanates determined strength.
Giralda bobs and turns, veering in our direction. Before she’s made it very far, Bianca’s arch voice pierces through the murmurs of the crowd.
“I hope none of you are stupid enough to fall for the wild princess’s tricks. She’ll lure you in like bait if you let her.”
I’m too focused on avoiding the panther and willing away the pain in my feet to argue with her taunts. Giralda hesitates and then stays where she is, still several paces away from us.
“Go on,” someone says behind me, and I find out what the nobles were given. Bits of meat and poultry bones fly through the air to fall at the panther’s feet. One bloody scrap splats against my skirt.
The scent of flesh brings another snarl to the predator’s lips. They curl back to reveal its fangs. When a bone strikes the panther’s haunches, it whips its head around with a snap.
Now we have even more to dodge as our feet flit across our stage. My already raw heel comes down on a shard of bone, and a cry I can’t catch breaks from my throat.
I haven’t quite righted myself when Fausta’s chin twitches toward me.
Whatever illusion she’s cast with her gift, it’s so concentrated only the panther must see it. But it’s enough to enrage the beast.
It lunges around with a roar and hurls itself straight at me.
My pulse lurches. I mean to fling myself out of the way, but as I strain my feet to propel me, my sore leg gives.
I stumble, throwing out my hands to catch my fall. The uneven tiles scour my palms. The panther’s hurtling paws pound toward me.
And with a choked gasp, a body hurtles into the space between the beast and me.
As I whip around, the panther crashes into the woman who’s jumped in front of me. Blond curls billow out around her freckled face. Claws rake through the maid uniform with a horrible tearing sound that’s more than just fabric.
Rochelle crumples beneath the animal’s charge. Blood spurts from the gouges across her chest and belly.
“No.” The word lurches out of me, so hoarse it’s little more than a rasp.
The panther catches one of Rochelle’s arms in its jaws and wrenches it back and forth with a guttural growl. My friend whimpers with a sputter of scarlet liquid over her lips. Her breath is already fading into broken hitches.
I push myself toward her with some ridiculous idea that I could fight the beast off her, but it turns out I don’t need to. The taste of blood and the sight of her limp form appears to mollify the huge cat.
It rips a chunk of flesh off her arm and backs away, gulping the mouthful down. Then one of the chunks of beef tossed onto the stage catches its attention.
I grasp Rochelle’s shoulder, turn her toward me, and clamp my teeth against a yelp. The wreckage of her ravaged torso makes my stomach flip over.
Gods help me, what can I do? I reach toward my gift, but no images rise up.
There’s nothing. Nothing at all.
Words spill out of me in a mumbled torrent. “What were you doing? You weren’t supposed to— You shouldn’t have?—”
Rochelle gazes blearily at me, her lips curving into a shaky smile. “You saved me. I save you. Win it. You have to win…”
Her faint voice peters out. I snatch at the shreds of her dress, searching for some way to stem the bleeding.
It’s too late. In the space of a few heartbeats, her eyes glaze over completely. The last bit of life drifts out of her slumped body, leaving her vacant against my clinging hands.
Marclinus’s raucous laughter carries from the high platform. “Now that’s a show! Where’s our music? They’re not done yet.”
As Lorenzo resumes his faltered playing, I stare down at my savaged friend through a blurring of tears. Pulling myself upright takes an effort as if a mountain rests on my back.
Emperor Tarquin’s cool voice breaks through the tumult of the crowd. “Princess Aurelia, are you so distressed over your maid?”
Because that’s all Rochelle was supposed to be to me. Because if I lied about my reasons for saving her life before, then I’m a traitor.
In that moment, I’m not sure I really care what the emperor thinks of me. All that holds me upright is Rochelle’s final words spinning in my head.
You have to win.
She gave her life so I could keep going. What kind of awful tribute would it be if I threw her sacrifice in her face?
I can’t let her down. I can’t let her die in vain.
I will back my tears and draw my posture straighter. The best answer I can summon seems to float up from somewhere deep and distant inside of me. “Not at all, Your Imperial Majesty. It’s only a little overwhelming to see such a savage death happen right in front of me. I look forward to continuing this dance.”
My response must not sound as hollow as it feels. Tarquin nods.
Fausta spins toward the high platform, but her gaze locks onto Marclinus rather than his father. Her words come out shrill. “The princess should have died! The beast was going to kill her . She lost. Call the guard. ”
When my head jerks toward my supposed betrothed, his eyes have narrowed. I don’t know if he’d have accepted Fausta’s appeal if she’d framed it in more cajoling terms, but the imperial heir mustn’t like her tone.
“I’m the one who gives the orders,” he says with chilly nonchalance. “We can’t prove that Princess Aurelia would have succumbed to the beast’s attack. She might have dodged or fended it off. She stays in… as long as she keeps dancing.”
The other ladies who’ve stalled around me shudder back into motion. Every particle of my being wants to bow over Rochelle and weep and pray that her soul is at peace in the embrace of her chosen godlen.
But the emperor and his heir expect me to dance. If I don’t, it’ll be my corpse lying right next to hers.
You have to win.
As I curve my arms around my body, my chest feels utterly vacant. My legs sway under me out of time with the music, pulsing with agony.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep going anyway, but I have to try. Otherwise, he wins.
This man I’m not sure I could hate more. This man I’m going through all this torture just to marry.
I shift my feet with the tune. Swing my arms around my hips. Let my head droop and toss it back.
I stay next to Rochelle’s slack body, her cloud of blond curls always at the edge of my vision. Showing my allegiance in the only way I have left.
One step after another. Stay in motion. Keep following the melody.
The song quavers into another. The tempo winds around me, dizzyingly.
Rochelle’s wisp of a voice echoes on within my skull.
You have to win. You have to win. You have to ? —
A yelp yanks my gaze across the platform.
Before my hazed vision, Giralda stumbles backward. The panther is stalking past her, and she’s reeled out of the way instinctively.
Unfortunately, she’d already drawn close to the edge of the platform. Her scrambling, unsteady feet send her careening right over the rim.
She topples to the ground and doesn’t even bother to lift her head. Her shoulders shake with whimpered sobs.
She left the platform. She already knows what’s coming.
Is she terrified or grateful for the release from this misery?
Hasn’t there already been enough death tonight? I can’t stop a protest from bubbling up my throat. “Don’t?—”
My voice comes out too thin to be heard above the excited roar of our audience. I can’t imagine what difference it would have made even if I’d bellowed from the depths of my lungs.
A guard stoops over Giralda and slices his sword through her throat.
Marclinus stands up in front of his chair, clapping vigorously. At his example, applause breaks out all around us.
His words ring out above the approving thunder. “Congratulations and well done to my three victorious ladies. The medics will see to your feet. Then you may retire and get some rest. The final trial commences the day after tomorrow.”